7:45 p.m.

              As much as it sounds like bullshit, I really did start driving in the evening to distract myself from what had been going on.  I mean, it was like a second day, a mini-groundhog shuffle that made me feel like I had a first chance at pretending this day did not happen so far.   A body had been piled in my trunk, a tongue had been plunged into my pussy, and my little brother stepped to the closet door frame and put his hip out of it.           

And it was still Wednesday. Still Wednesday dammit. Still. Wednesday.  My friends who do shows used to always tell me that matinees are separate pay days from evening shows. I get that shit now. 

              Speaking of performing artists, the Tom Hardy character worried me.  I mean, as Kwanzaa and Agape as I mean to be, I don’t do yogurt.  And Colby is like the Anderson Cooper of white patriarchy:  he doesn’t look his age. Lots going on Tom, Anderson, Dorian Gray, it’s concerning.  That or he’s the person that The Devil’s Advocate is based on. I don’t mean that he’s Satan’s son necessarily, just that he signed something with somebody in hell. 

              This white man has a nice stature all the time in all of these pictures on Google I found of him.  You can see the body through the clothes.   I don’t know, the more I thought about it, more I wanted to see him naked, which only made me madder.

              And horny as hell.  I maintain that the reason I called Johnathan at all is that I needed to deal with a black man to undo the affliction of white-lusting.  Couldn’t go out like that.

              After five passengers, Johnny comes to me, reclines his seat, pulls out his dick and starts stroking.  I try to resist grabbing it and stroking too. Until he gets those fingers going.  Yes, I wore a pair of old daisy dukes that are too big and airy so that this negro could have easy access.

              I’m still not giving him any pussy though, at least this is the plan. 

              But this boy still has tricks to break my face and make my crotch a slave to his.  He told me to recline my seat, a command that made sense. But then he flipped me around so that my head was under the steering column and my crotch was near the head rest.  I have one of those cars that let’s you remove the headrest and I don’t know, maybe he Googled the instruction manual for my car, but he knows how to get that shit off martial arts fast.

              Then he squats in the back seat, pulls my coochie right to his mouth and eats it like it’s a full course meal. Talk about vulnerable. My hair and wrap are so far from the action of this, and my booty creates a tray that just puts the coochie right where he needed it.   This man has figured out how to actually elevate the pussy in every way. 

              I’m just about to cum for the third time and reconsider giving this boy some dick when I see Colby’s number flash across my screen. COLBY WHITE RESCUER ?  is how I have him listed and he’s saving the day again.

              “Gotta take this call.”

              “Okay.”  But Johnathan keeps his head game going. 

              I answer the phone as best I can, trying to ignore that of the 8,000 nerve endings I have in my clitoris, Johnny is licking at least half of them.

              “Hi Davia, how’s it going today?”

              “Great, you?”

              “I’m good.  Listen, I may have left something in your car that day and I really need it back.”

              “Oh okay…” It becomes hard to concentrate because now Johnathan is busier trying steal my snatch with his tongue, like it can come out of my body and go home with him. And I feel like Sin sunning in the Bahamas.   “What did you need? Um, this is a…what did you lose?”

              At this point, I hope Colby will understand that this is a bad time and change his whole game.

              “It’s a small black flash drive,” he says, oblivious. Or maybe in the know but giving zero fucks. “Are you in your car right now?”

              “Um, no but if you give me a second to get to it, I’ll call you right back.”

              “I’ll be right here waiting.”

              I hang up and make sure that I’m hung up.  Right when I’m about to tell Johnathan that I need his help looking for a flash drive, he makes me cum. 

              Now understand that when I say cum, I mean the shaking, seismic, fish-mad-at-the-hook kind of writhing cum.  It was now officially criminal for me not to sit on this man’s dick and I told him so.

              “…but first we have to find this flash drive.”


              He’s dazed and confused, looking like he came as hard as I did and I hope to hell he didn’t.  Then I move my head around the side of the seat to see that he’s just short on oxygen at present.

              “Help me find this flash drive.”

              I’m upside down already so I start looking near the floor, near the mats.  I turn myself over and bisect the car looking around the passenger side, deciding that at least this hook up moment in my current place of business, which has throngs of wrong as far as sanitation violations, ethics issues and general unfairness, at least this hook up has positioned me (literally) to help this Lyft rider find missing property. 

              “This it?”

              Johnathan locates it and I pull myself upright to sit up on island between the seats. 

              “I’m guessing it is.”

              It dawns on me that I need to check the contents. Not because I’m nosey, which I am, but because how else was I going to verify that the flash drive belonged to this man and not someone else?  Friends, this is when I realize that I am on a roll with solid justifications for my actions:  getting my pussy eaten inverted on a grade so I can be a good Samaritan; spying someone’s flash drive to prevent potentially sensitive material from going to the wrong person.

              I can’t finish the shift fast enough.  Johnathan is put out right away with thanks and kisses and promises of pussy promotion later.  Maybe a solid hour is all I get through before I’m back at the house, yanking out my laptop to check this flash drive.

              My mother is doing the most, asking every question she can about everything, completely clueless about the day so far.

              “Hi baby, how was the driving today?”

              “It was good Mama.” I neglect to say that my clitoris was refreshed.

              “Have you seen Rafelo and Davia?”

              “You mean Rafelo and Martina. I’m Davia, Mom.”

              “Oh baby, you sure are. I’m sorry. You know I don’t have my glasses on…”

              She’s also dealing with early onset dementia, but I have no time to address it at the moment.  The flash drive has way too much shit on it to figure out where to start. So inconvenient for a nosey person.

              My mother goes on.  “A man called you today, says he’s a lawyer.”

              “Uh huh.”   I get to a set of files that look encrypted.  Then the subfolder with mp4’s.

              “Said something about a Cody who referred him…are you in some kind of trouble.”

              “No, Mama.  Wait—Colby?”

              “Now were you listening at all baby?  Cody is not the person who called, just the person who passed on your number.”

              The house phone number, which I did not give Colby.

              “Colby, Mama. The name is Colby. But who did he have call here?”

              “Chile, I can’t remember that part, let me think about it…”

              I look back at the screen and there is the file.  A video of a man arguing with what looks like a woman, sandy hair, athletic, in baggy clothes. It’s grainy, but clear enough to see it escalate.  The guy is also athletic. Right when it looks like it’s ending, he smacks her across the face. She goes back at him and he assaults her again.  His face turns toward the direction of the camera, and even though he’s not looking at it, I can see that he resembles Ace, a prominent UCLA football player and top NFL draft pick. 

              “Oh, I remember now, baby!  Colby!  The man’s name Colby who called!”

              And sometimes the dementia is worse than I think it’s going to be.  Somebody called for Colby and my mother has no idea what his name is.

              “Thanks Mama, I’ll get his number from you and call him back.”

              “He didn’t leave one, said he’ll call you back.”

              This was all getting too weird.  For protection, I needed to copy the video, but this would require some help; of course drag-and-drop fails epically.

              And of course, Colby can never know I’ve seen this video.

              On cue, as if this agent of Shield heard me, he calls me right then.

              “Hi Davia. Say, were you able to find that flash drive for me.”

              “Yes, I have it right here in the car with me. Should I bring it to you somewhere?”

              “No, no. Would you do me a favor and hold on to it? I’ll call and come get pick it up from you tomorrow.”

              “Sounds perfect.”  As afraid as I was to ask, I had to do it. “Hey, did your lawyer call already?”

              “Not that I know of, but I’ll check with her.”

              Her? Shit. It just gets worse and worse.



7:45 p.m.

              She was lying of course.  She was not in her car and she had probably seen the video, which means I would need to get involved in her situation with the police and the body for leverage.  She’s a nice gal and I really had no interest in harm coming to her, especially since this fix was so costly already.  It could all wait—a woman driving Uber and Lyft to get out of debt and stay out of the drama of production for reality television was not interested enough in drama to be a worry.

              The porn worker in front of me, on the other hand, she was a different story.  Tara had put on her clothes and looked at me with desperation that I pretended not to see. I was out of time and needed to get back to LA.

              “Say, great job, good work,” I told her, “I know this isn’t for distribution but it was sexy as hell.”

              “And that’s the thing, I would love for it to be released, if possible—”

              “This is for a private client only, so sorry about that.”

              “I get that, and I know our faces will be replaced, but I’m wondering if there is any way it can be released in its original form later. Sweetened, edited.”

              Five minutes ago, I made every effort not to overhear the phone call she got with her test results, which explained why she confirmed her real name, Judy.   Positive for something irrevocable, probably HIV, a negative for her career.  It fascinated me how porn movie studios worked like old MGM and Warner Brothers, contracting talent for years at a time exclusively; but a communicable disease nullifies the contract.

              Not my gig.

              “I wish I could help, but this is not my call.”

              “Please. Please just consider it.  Can we revisit this later?”

              She was so far out of her league as far as information.

              “Before or after he’s incarcerated?”

              If I had the power to turn my eyes into knives I would have used them to slit Rich’s throat.  Even that joke was way too much security breach for my client. He knew enough to leave my sight right away.

              I turned back to Judy. “You can feel free to contact me in a few months, but the handling of the film still won’t be in my purview.”

              The truth is, after the deep fake editing was done, and we were able to place Ace’s mug on Topaz and superimpose the NFL Commissioner’s wife over Judy’s body, Ace would be compelled to settle out of court.  He picked the wrong girl to rape for sure, a girl with a wealthy enough family to hire a fixer.

              Best gig I’ve had in years.  

              When I pitched the deep fake solution, it meant showing the video of Barack Obama being digitized on camera to say things written and spoken by Jordan Peele as an example.  I could produce this video in a hurry and threaten extortion that would not only keep Ace out of the NFL forever, but also put him at the mercy of angry, wealthy white men. Rich could make it happen, although one more crack and he wouldn’t make it to the editing suite.

              “Please don’t forget me,” she asked.

              “No worries.”

              The truth is, my cock was hard most of the time I was there.  I would jack it every night to this video. The original version.



9:15 p.m.

              It’s amazing how quickly you can make it from scared to death to ready to cause it. When I came to, I was horizontal on a sofa looking at two strangers. 

“You’re fine Martina. Relax.  We’re FBI,” the better-looking one said.  “We know your husband  has been trafficking sperm samples from unspecified donors. We just want to know who he’s working for. Any ideas?”

I sat up slowly and my head hurt insanely.

“Any answers? Take your time,” the other one said.

“Answers?” I asked.

“Is he working for you? Are you the mastermind?”

“Who are you?”

They flashed FBI badges.  Splendid. Fucking splendid.

              “He’s working for himself,” I said. “That’s it.”

              “Did you know about his operations?”

              “Some, but not a lot. He kept most of it from me so that if this shit ever happened I could not be held responsible.”

              “So you did not know about the $300,000 he moved in the past three months?”

              Like I said, from scared to death to ready to cause it.  I was fine with the women; the average Dominican man has a wife, a mistress and a girlfriend, and the last two are not to be confused with each other.   And I was fine with the scam. But he had made $300,000??? And nobody in our household had seen a penny????  I thought that he had hadn’t gotten paid yet for most of the samples he sold. 

              “The number I know is the one in the account:  $4,522. That’s all I know. Where are you getting the other $295,478?”

              The cute one chuckled. “Somebody is good at math.”

              “The rest of it, some $290k or so is in a bank account in the Dominican Republic that he has access to here.  The rest he spent on family.  I agree with him, you’re good at math.”

              Good at math. I lost my mind.  Total black out, complete with cursing him out in tongues.  Here we were in the house struggling, my entire family struggling to take care of him while he supposedly worked out this scheme to help us back, and he was holding on to money? What the fuck!?!?

              “I think we should go to the hospital. I need to whip his ass.”

              They looked each other.

              The cute one was first up. “I don’t think he’s conscious yet but I’m confident enough that you are willing to help us out.”    

              “Conscious?”  I know it was crazy, but I got nervous for him suddenly.  Maybe I just needed him to be alive so that I could kill him. Not sure, but the shiver went up my back anyway.

              “He’s in the hospital.”

              “But his phone—”

              Again, the cute one, this time raising his phone.  They led me right to them. I rolled my eyes.

              “How do you know he’s still there?”

              “We put a tracker in him. On him.”

              Now I was irritated. After all he was still my family to track, snoop, protect and hurt badly if necessary.  But at the end of this Wednesday, there was very little reason to hide—we were busted.

              “I’ll cooperate 100% as long as you help me with my situation with my family and make sure I have enough time to get what I need out of this exchange we’re about to have with my husband.”

              They agreed to take me to Presbyterian and let me see him.